


Requiem

by cdaae



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, I could see it, Romance, this story lives rent free in my head so now you guys get to have it, vampire, you guys remember that one scene in 2004 where he kinda looks like a vampire?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27377494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdaae/pseuds/cdaae
Summary: No one had really believed the town needed a theater. The structure had been proposed at a town hall meeting by a local theatre troupe, hoping to settle into the theater if it was approved. It wasn’t a popular suggestion.The singing and dancing was decent, no one could really complain. But the vote became unanimously in favour once a blue-eyed siren with dark curls had opened her mouth and released a sorrowful aria. Not a soul remained unmoved. The theater was approved and construction had begun.A vampire setting for a classic tale
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Requiem

No one had really believed the town needed a theater. The structure had been proposed at a town hall meeting by a local theatre troupe, hoping to settle into the theater if it was approved. It wasn’t a popular suggestion.

The singing and dancing was decent, no one could really complain. But the vote became unanimously in favour once a blue-eyed siren with dark curls had opened her mouth and released a sorrowful aria. Not a soul remained unmoved. The theater was approved and construction had begun. 

The town was in a daze; had a young girl really convinced them with a mere  _ song _ to approve a building they didn’t need, much less want? The townsfolk tried to remember the words she had sung or even to picture her face, but with no luck. How had she hypnotized an entire town and not left an impression? 

_ The Siren _ became something of a local legend. It wasn’t uncommon to find a group of men huddled around a table in a tavern, speculating on what she looked like, or what she really was

“An angel!” one man would shout, “she must have been! She is the personification of beauty and grace!”

“A demon,” another would argue, “trying to tempt you to damnation with her beauty.”

These discussions often ended in an argument, and each man would part with his own idea of what she really was. As construction on the theater drew to a close, the town held a collective breath, waiting to see if the Siren would take the stage.

**~*~*~*~**

**Chapter 1**

_ Christine was born to Gustave and Elsa Daae in Sigtuna, Sweden. Elsa fell ill and passed when Christine was very young; she could barely recall the memory of her mother’s face. After a period of mourning, the remaining members of their little family left Sweden. Gustave and his little daughter traveled all over Europe, stopping in various cities, where he would play his violin on street corners to buy food and other necessities. He was such a kind man that they were frequently allotted a place to stay for the evening and a nice warm meal. They never had much, but they had enough.  _

_ Gustave had loved to tell stories, especially to the local children, who would gather around him, eager to hear. Christine would proudly sit in her papa’s lap as he wove his fantastical tales. But her favorite, the story that enraptured her the most, was the Angel of Music, who descends from heaven to nurture the talents of good boys and girls with music in their hearts.  _

_ “And one day,” he would say to Christine, tapping her nose, “I will send the angel of music to you.” Christine would look up at him with wide, starry eyes. More than anything, she longed for a visit from the angel of music.  _

_ The angel’s visit came with a terrible price.  _

_ As Christine’s fifteenth birthday drew near, Gustave began to feel ill. He tried to hide it for his daughter’s sake, but as the weeks went on, it became more and more apparent. Christine begged him to extend their stay in Perros-Guirec, both for her father’s sake and her own desire to remain with her new friend, a young boy staying with his family a few houses down. Gustave promised her they would stay til her birthday.  _

_ Gustave was bedridden by the time Christine’s birthday rolled in. Every time he coughed, crimson blood would dribble from his lips. Christine would sit at his bedside, dabbing it away. He was succumbing, and both of them knew it. With a trembling, clammy hand, Gustave caught his daughter’s wrist. “Christine…” he rasped. “Remember the angel of music?” She nodded. “When I am in heaven, I will send the angel to you.” She wept, clutching at his hand.  _

_ Death came for him that evening. Christine was slumped in a chair by his bed, asleep, when he released his last breath and fell still.  _

_ Gustave had made arrangements prior to his department for his daughter. Antoinette Giry, an old friend of his from time spent in Paris, came with her young daughter, Meg, to collect Christine. Instead of returning home, which was in shambles from the war, Antoinette took a position with a local theatre troupe that was preparing to tour Europe. She danced in the ensemble, and taught Christine and Meg, in her down time. The music director saw potential in Christine and taught her to sing. Christine was given a position in the chorus when she turned eighteen, as well as being appointed the understudy to the lead. The company had arrived in Romania, performing in Bran. Shortly before their final performance, their lead fell ill and Christine took the stage.  _

_ She knelt in her dressing room before the performance, praying to her father, to the angel, to anyone who might hear her prayer and help her. The Angel of Music did not come.  _

_ Even without the angel’s help, Christine had a triumphant debut. The audience erupted into applause the moment she sang her final note. The other chorus girls swarmed her with hugs and cries of “You were incredible!” Backstage, Christine was changing into mundane clothes when a voice whispered in her ear. _

_ “You sang like an angel…” _

_ Christine had looked around wildly. “Where are you? Are you the angel? The angel of music?” _

_ There was a long pause before the voice answered. “Yes…” _

_ From that day on, wherever the troupe travelled, the voice had followed. For years, the angel coached her, until she rose through the ranks and landed the starring role.  _

Now, they were settled in Târnăveni, waiting for construction of the new theater to be finished. Christine was lying on a bed in a room crammed with twelve other girls. Sitting up, she realized she was the only one awake, the room quiet with only the sound of peaceful, even breathing interrupting the stillness. She rose and crossed to the floor-length mirror fixed to the wall, scrutinizing her reflection. Christine had always thought of herself as ordinary. She was plain, but had a decent voice that allowed her to make a living. 

Christine thought back to the town hall meeting. Every man, woman, and child had stared in awe at her as she sang, as if hypnotized. Usually on a stage, distanced from the audience, Christine was unable to clearly view their expressions and relied on their applause to judge her performance. It was unnerving, in a brightly lit room, to be gaped at as she sang. 

The town had seemed, as a whole, dazed when she finished singing, and passed a vote for the theater. Christine expected it to fall apart in a few days, because the town had forgotten to discuss where the  _ money _ would come from.  _ You must have really stunned them _ , she thought. 

But after a week a simple structure went up, merely an outline for the theater it would become.

Christine, like the rest of the town, wasn’t quite sure how it happened. There was electricity in the air as she sang that she had never felt before. She heard tales of The Siren and wondered… could they possibly be referring to  _ her _ ? Yet no one seemed to recognize her. She moved through the town anonymously, hardly ever earning more than a glance.  _ You imagined it, _ she told herself.  _ You imagined that you captivated an entire town. It was only in your head.  _ That seemed to be the only logical explanation. 

She changed into her day clothes. It would be nice, once the theater was built, to be able to settle down. Their troupe kept very little belongings; they were always moving, it wasn’t practical to collect possessions. Truthfully, Christine didn’t mind much. She had a few trinkets from her parents that she’d brought with her, a day dress, and nightclothes. That was all she really needed. The troupe provided her lodging. 

But Christine had been traveling all her life, first with her father, and then with the troupe. She was eager, she told herself, to have a place to call home, to have more than one dress to wear every day, besides costumes. The members were like family to her, anyway. She carefully made her way through the room, stepping over sleeping girls on mats and weaving around small beds. If she returned before breakfast, they’d likely never know she was gone. 

Târnăveni was a small, but growing town. Most of the town was lined along either side of the main road, with homes scattering out over the hills. There was a soft morning mist as Christine exited the inn and took in her new home. She tightened her cloak as a gust of wind blew past her, seemingly whispering her name. It was early, her surroundings eerily quiet while the world still slept. 

“Christine…” the voice came once more. She looked around for the source. Not only did she see no one, the area was so barren, it was almost impossible for a person to conceal themselves. That had to mean…

“Angel?” her voice was a soft whisper, afraid that if she spoke any louder, she would break the quiet atmosphere. 

“Yes, child.” Relief flooded through her, coursing through her veins like a warm drink. It made Christine feel safe to know her angel was watching over her. “You ought not to wander about alone, dear one. You never know whom you may encounter…”

“I’m not afraid.” Her voice was still little more than a whisper. “I have you to protect me.”

The angel chuckled. “Stubborn girl. Where are you off to?”

That was a good question. Christine hesitated, pondering. “Well… I’m going to explore. This is my home now, after all.”

“Is it now? Are you sure you wish to settle down in a town so dreadfully dull? A girl with your talents should be singing on every famous stage the world has to offer.” His praise brought a blush to her cheeks.

“I have never had a home before. I think I will be happy here.” She wanted to believe that, to convince herself that a mundane life was enough to content herself with. 

“And what if you’re wrong?” The angel’s words echoed her own fears. What would she do, if she wasn’t happy here? She had little money, and no friends or family outside the troupe. She  _ had  _ to be happy. Christine shook her head, unable to give a response, and moved forward. There was a layer of snow on the ground; her crunching footsteps seemed awfully loud as she trudged towards the main road. 

The angel followed, his voice at her ear. “What if this isn’t the home you dream of? What if I could offer you a better home?”

“I’ve no wish to join you in heaven, I’m not finished with my life here on earth.”

“Not heaven, my child. A kingdom. A castle to call your own and hold dominion over all beneath you.”

Christine stopped in her tracks; his words didn’t feel particularly angelic. “Angel, I am just a performer. There is no one beneath me.”

She was a simple girl from a small town in Sweden, barely spared a second glance by most who passed her. A small, wild part of her wanted the angel’s words to be possible. She could imagine herself in the highest tower of her castle, surveying her kingdom, beloved by her people. But it wasn’t possible for a poor girl like her to become royalty overnight. She’d given up her fairytales with her advent into womanhood, trying to be practical and down to earth. She no longer had her papa to keep her from flying too high in the clouds. 

“I could make you a queen, Christine, if you would only surrender yourself to me…”

The voice had never spoken to her like this, and she found she didn’t like it. There was something sinister behind his words, and that frightened her. “Angel please. I am happy being just… Christine.” She resumed her trek into town. 

The sun had only just begun to rise, but it was still dark enough that most of the buildings were still locked up and there was an eerie stillness, as though the town were holding its breath. Christine noticed that the doors and windows were shut tight and that most houses bore a crucifix or a wreath of garlic. “How odd”, she murmured. “Angel, have you ever seen anything like it?”

“They are afraid, Christine. They fear a monster that prowls through the night, an enemy they have never seen, but have learned to ward away. And they are right to be afraid, Christine.”

His words sent a shiver down his spine. “I can’t very well explore a town that’s still shuttered for the night.” Christine turned around, and froze at what she found.

A little ways away from her stood a man, though distant enough that she could not see his face. He cut an imposing silhouette against the slowly rising sun, his cloak whipping around him. He took a step towards Christine, who raised her hands defensively. “Who are you!”

The figure stopped, then let out a low, sinister chuckle. “You mean you don’t recognize me?”

Christine squinted at him, trying to get a better look but failing without any light to aid. “Do I know you?”

“Perhaps not. Not anymore.” His voice was mournful.

He took another step and Christine took an equal one back. “Tell me who you are!” 

The man sighed and strode forward. Christine, panicking, backed up until she ran into a wall with a thump that dislodged a mound of snow and everything went black. 


End file.
